Closer
by RennaEsprit
Summary: The closer is painfully. The closer is desirably. The closer is what we want and we are afraid. Michael


**Title**: Closer

**Author**: RennaEsprit

**Rating **: G

**Pairing**: Sara/Michael

**Spoilers**: season one, "End Of The Tunnel"

**Disclaimer **: not mine

Special thanks to **Mariam, **my wonderful beta

…

Touch my hand and look into my eyes. Make me feel. Make me feel again. Make me, for a moment, just for a moment; make me believe that it's all, it all, it's true. All I need is a second and I'll believe you. I just want to believe for a moment?

Touch my hand. Make you fingers slip down to my wrist – and the tips of your fingers are coarse and my skin is so thin and so sensitive. Make me stop. Make time freeze.

Look into my eyes. Look into my eyes and make me believe that you've seen there all my secret thoughts. Those secret, personal thoughts which are mine and only mine, but I want you to feel them. I'll never tell you, 'cause the words are rough and rigid and they'll destroy a fragile covering of my feelings, they'll hurt me and they'll leave a bleeding trace in my soul; but you can feel it. I want to believe that you can feel.

Make me stop. Touch my hand and make me stop, make me freeze, make me stand up, make me feel the ground under my foots, 'cause I'm falling, I'm falling, I'm falling; and when it all will be over, when I fell on the ground, then I can't stand again. Then I can't wake up. I need you to make me feel the ground under my foots.

There's destruction. All around me is falling, one behind one, it all falls, and I'm falling too. And my world is falling too, that world that I built, built carefully, and I loved it because it was mine and only mine. No one, no one before could not divide it with me, nobody has left the trace, a print of a dirty boot in my small world where I lived. I love this word "mine". "Mine", a pity scrap of something abstract, that I can consider as mine. And it's still being mine.

Do you want me to tell, that I'm melting? Like an ice cubes, and I know that's silly and ordinary and boring and a thousand women tell it before me, but I can't find the other words. Do you want me to tell, that I'm spreading like sugar syrup, do you want me to admit, that my hands are shivering, every time when I'm opening a new pack of insulin? Do you want me to tell this? 

Do you want me to tell, that I lied? Lied about my small virgin world, lied, 'cause it's not so virgin. You've touch it, you've touch my hand, my skin – all, that I could name "mine". You've crossed that line, passed two or three centimetres called a deceptive personal space, which is separated "mine" from "not mine".

And it's painfully, when someone intrudes there, that you consider as yours. When he interferes sharply without knock; interferes 'cause you've casually left a door slightly opened, slightly, just for a centimetre or even a millimetre, but you've left it opened. There's a thin slit, just a thin slit, but soon it all will scatter on thousand splinters. 'cause you must never let someone to come any closer, to get inside. There always should be something yours and only yours, something personal. Something and somewhere where you can hide, where you can live, where you can hammer, and nobody will be able to find you there.

The closer is painfully. The closer is desirably. The closer is what we want and we are afraid. The closer is that thing after which even the trifle, the tiniest, most insignificant trifle can hurt. Can hurts and cut without any knife. Cut on slices, on cubes, hack on thin strips. Cut your small internal world where was so good and so comfortable a second earlier.

And now it isn't. 'cause the closer is painfully.

Touch my hand. Touch it, where is a pulse. Touch my hand and look into my eyes. But don't tell me anything, 'cause words will hurt me. 'cause words will hurt me, and it'll be painfully. And 'cause you are already there, in my inside, but you still don't know about it.

We are too close to each other. And I haven't any forces to discharge. The door is already opened. It's broken out.

Touch my hand. Touch it, and let the moment pass. Let the first instant pass when it's not hurt me yet. One moment.

And then the closer will hurt me. And I will receive the one gram of truly happiness and the six kilograms of pain. That pain which came when "mine" became "not mine". And then there's nothing left for me…

Do you want me to tell, that I'll do anything for you? Do you want me to tell that here and now I'll do anything for you? Do you want me to admit, that I found you guilty in all mortal sins? And yes, it's true. I know you're guilty.

You've rescued me once and now I should be grateful. You've rescued me, you've come once, and now it seems to me, that you'll leave. You'll leave, having left a door wide open. And the cold wind will rush into the rests of my small world, putting a dust and dirt there where I was so happy.

Touch my hand. Make me stop and stop yourself. Do not leave. Just do not leave …

The closer is painfully. The closer is painfully, and I know it, but I still hope. 'cause if I don't there's nothing left for me. And I hope that sometime the closer won't hurt me. Sometime.

But now it hurts. 

…

"Why do I feel like you're saying goodbye to me?"

"I don't know. I guess in a place like this, you never know which day is going to be your last."

**Fin**


End file.
